


Dark In My Imagination

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She brings her own hand up to splay fingers on his neck, dragging her nails over taut muscle and sinew and loving the way he shudders,"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark In My Imagination

The beat of the music sits heavy in her chest. It thrums against her ribcage, thick, like the pulsating of blood under a thin membrane of skin. She can feel it, in every inch of her body, powerful and tingling and  _wonderful_ . She can see lights flashing bright against her eyelids, each strobe with its own pulse – And she can enjoy it all. She’s in control, but she doesn’t have to be, because there’s nothing waiting to take over her. She’s not sure she’ll ever get past her ability to be in a place like this, when for so long she had to be always careful, constantly fearing the dark and the pain and the humiliation that loomed just beyond.

Her attentions are pulled from the silent revelations when a body presses up against her back, strong hands gripping her waist and pulling her against him. He’s taller than her, she can feel the lines and planes of muscles through his shirt and the definition of his jaw against her temple and she knows who it is even before his scent floods her senses. She says nothing, and he’s wordless as his hands slide under her shirt and up along skin, fingers brushing against the fabric of her bra. She brings her own hand up to splay fingers on his neck, dragging her nails over taut muscle and sinew and loving the way he shudders, the way he dips his head and brushes his lips against the column of her neck.

And then she’s pressed up against the bathroom wall, the pattern of the tile undoubtedly imprinting itself into her skin. The mark will be as temporary as the bite she’s left on his neck, it will heal and fade, but she’ll be able to conjure the contrast of cold tile on hot skin days from now, weeks even. The way his teeth glint in the dim light and the hard cut of his jaw and the half smirk he’s wearing as he presses into her. Her head tips back, hard to the wall, and she’ll repeat the action when she relives this in her mind, the back of her head pressed to mattress instead of tile and her fingers between her legs instead of his.

Hers is a whimper, bright and sharp and ending in a gasp, and his is a guttural moan, one that vibrates in his chest and turns into a growl. There is no build up; the pace is immediate – Hard, fast, strong. His fingers break blood vessels and bruises blue on her hips in their pattern, only to fade within moments. She runs her fingers through his hair, nails dragging over his scalp to the base of his skull. His hand drops from her waist to cup her jaw, force her head up, demand a kiss and bite her lip when she cries out again – Involuntary, not in control, and glad of it. They both taste blood but the bite is gone too quick to soothe, and brown eyes burn yellow and blue flash brighter.

And then it’s over. Her head’s still tilted back, but the muscles in her neck have relaxed save the few short spasms that jolt her body as she recovers, breathing heavy and grinning and  _Holy Hell Jackson Whittemore just fucked her in a club bathroom_. It isn’t quite the after game locker room session she’s pictured on multiple occasions, but it’s definitely good enough and he’s still pressing his lips along her neck and she can feel his grin on her skin and so she rocks her hips forwards, a wordless demand. _Again_.

He complies.


End file.
